


Cold

by why-the-hell-do-i-write (stillwater_writes)



Category: Overwatch (Video Game)
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Feral!76, Gen, Implied Torture, a bit of violence, and a bit happens too?, i guess?
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-08-21
Updated: 2016-08-21
Packaged: 2018-08-10 01:40:30
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 511
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/7825231
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stillwater_writes/pseuds/why-the-hell-do-i-write
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>A little drabble that happened. I remembered that Feral!76 has what the lovely tophatlass dubbed 'twist the knife' mode where he more or less decides to torture the hell out of someone for one reason or another. So... this!</p>
            </blockquote>





	Cold

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Tophatlass](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Tophatlass/gifts).



> This was more or less and attempt to recapture the writing mojo honestly. I'll have some updates for series soon, but right now it's going to be more or less drabbles until then.

Their orders are to track and take down the targets, Reaper and 76. The traitor and the mad dog.

A trap was set, and successfully sprung. Embroling the low level grunts then battle with the mercenary and his weapon.

\----

The fighting is hectic. On one side, a thick black mist chokes the agents, obscuring their vision and hiding the shotguns that would rip through their bodies. On the other, the snarling beast, eyes wild with hatred and rage, metal claws ripping through flesh with ease.

The lone agent clutches his gun, fearful. He doesn't know what to do. Joining either fight surely means death, but not fighting holds the same promise. He backs up, unable to decide what to do.

Fate decides for him, as more agents fall to blazing shotguns. Briefly, Reaper materializes, his back turned to the frightened grunt. The EMP rifle barrel comes up seemingly without prompting. As the last combatant falls to hellfire, the trigger clicks.

What was a looming mercenary seconds ago becomes a twitching mass, inhuman shrieking coming from the smoky fog as the energy waves rip through it.

The agent backs up, fearful but triumphant. _I did it! I got him!_

When hot blood splashes across the floor, only then does he realize. The dog.

He turns, dread icing its way down his spine.

The dog has his claws gripped in some other agent’s chest, blood pouring from the litany of wounds. Except he’s not looking at the limp doll. No.

Those eyes are trained on him.

The agent backs up, a terrified whimper escaping his lips. Silently he prays for death. The death he knows he won’t get.

A quick one.

The dog drops the body, and moves forward. Slowly. Stalking his prey.

The agent backs up further, until the numbness of fear claims him. His veins fill with ice. There’s nothing. No other agents. No still writhing Reaper. Just those eyes.

Dazzling blue. Color like the sky.

_Thunk._

They’re clear. Not clouded by bestial rage.

_Thunk._

They glitter like glass. Sharper than a razor.

_Thunk._

Harder than steel. Colder than ice.

_Thunk._

Pain. They promise pain.

_Thunk._

Bloody claws grip the agent’s throat gently, softly, as if hesitant. The other hand comes up, grasping the edges of his helmet, pulling it up and off.

Eyes wide with fear and full of tears, silently begging for mercy meet metal. The agent doesn’t dare struggle. Doesn’t dare breathe.

He knows what will happen next.

Slowly, patiently, a claw presses into his cheek. Pressure increasing until a bead of blood is drawn.

He whimpers.

The blue only grows colder.

The hand moves down to his jacket, pulling away the gun and vest. It trails by again, and the touch could almost be called loving. Stinging lines of pain run down his skin.

He whimpers again.

The hand moves like a flash, and there’s a sickening snap.

He screeches in pain, pinkie finger bent unnaturally.

_Nine more_ ; the blue promises.

Metal slices across his cheek.

_Ninety more._

The claws dig into his neck.

_Nine hundred more._


End file.
